


Pretty

by Microdigitalwaker



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Microdigitalwaker/pseuds/Microdigitalwaker





	1. Chapter 1

Using the reflection off the secured bookcase's glass, not unlike Perseus approaching Medusa, Harold Finch studies John's reclining form.

It's mid afternoon and raining torentially, perhaps enough to lull the exhausted man asleep enough that Harold may pass. It's not as though he likes keeping things from John, who has proven on countless occasions to be abundantly trustworthy. It's just that some things are _private_.

John is stripped to the waist, his shirt hanging from a nearby chair, dripping on the floor below.  There's a towel wreathing his head and shoulders; his eyes are shut and his right hand is lazily tucked in the waist of his trousers.  Harold ventures a step, cringing at the squishing sound of wet wool socks in sodden Italian leather. 

"Harold."

Harold inhales.  "Here, Mr. Reese.  No need to get up."  He slaps on a snile though John's eyes remain closed.  Harold continues his damp creep to the bathroom and wardrobe.  

He doesn't bank on the large hands spinning him around, chivying him back towards the couch and onto John's lap.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Several dry towels are produced, warmed beneath John's body; the former agent has the motto 'be prepared' inked indelibly, as does Harold himself.

The towel smell like John, a pleasant cloud that surrounds his head as it is gently rubbed across wet hair.  John makes encouraging little sounds, tiny wordless murmurs that turn Harold's spine to taffy.

John tugs off Harold's  socks, one by one.  Harold squints, mesmerized by the contrast beteeen John's warm, brown hands and the clammy, pruney white of his feet.  John seems likewise engaged, patting them dry before dragging fingers along the arch of Harold's right foot until Harold squeals.

"Tickles?"

Harold nods, squirming on John's comfortable thighs, already growing warmer but still Harold shivers, crossing his arms across his chest, tucking his fingertips below his arms.  

He is grateful that John is content with the knowledge that he's  ticklish, unlike Nathan, who upon making the same discovery had found great pleasure in applying it until Harold would break into tears, wheezing.

John is better than Nathan.  Better for him.  Harold knows this now, which is the only reason why he relaxes his arms, allowing John to remove his sodden waistcoat and begin unbuttoning his shirt.

The shirt is parted exposing Harold's little pot belly, a forest of brown and silver fuzz and the true objects that Harold had been guarding from John's eyes.  Harold grits his teeth and turns away from John as far as his fused neck will allow, steeling for laughter or a shocked gasp or dirty little snicker.

All he gets is a singled word, a word colored with quiet longing.

"Pretty."

 Pretty?  Well the chunky little titanium rings thst pierce his nipples are pretty, to Harold at least.  As is the single amethyst bead hanging from each ring, which match Harold's suit and paler shirt.

Wordlessly, John helps Harold shrug off the wet garments and continues to dry Harold as singularly as a mother cat bathes her favorite kitten.

 _Pretty_.


	3. Chapter 3

Since the explosion that took Nathan's life and ruined his, Harold has become both the master of his broken heart and the master of his broken body, pushing down the ubiquitous pain in order to hone his mind to a rapier's point. Alone except for his creation, it is the only way he can even begin to tackle the Herculean task that Nathan had started.

Now he is no longer alone and as he sits on John's lap, meekly submitting to the former op's ministrations, Harold can no longer ignore what he, in his entirety, craves.

"Just a moment," he says, wiggling to gain enough momentum to swing his legs to the floor so that he can stand.  John puts down the towel and helps, a brief, undisguised look of dissapointment flashing in his eyes.

It's something Harold thinks he can fix.  He reaches for his belt, enjoying John's nearly imperceptible moan.

"I do enjoy coordinating my outfits," Harold admits demurely, pushing down his rain-soaked trousers to reveal a very plain, well fitted pair of boxer briefs that match the amethyst beads precisely.

"I'm still wet, John," Harold reminds his dumbstruck partner, emphasizing the severity of the dilema by cupping his groin, massaging the stiff weight there so that the small, warm patch of moisture is abundantly apparent.  

John blinks, licks his lips but is otherwise frozen.

Tsk-ing, Harold gingerly places a knee on either side of John's  thighs, scooting forward until he can relax his weight against John's crotch, which is fascinatingly bumpy.

"I'm glad you like my rings," Harold says as he takes John's  hands, softly pressing the palms against his jeweled nipples.  "I...I was afraid you might laugh."

John quivers, shaking below Harold, his hands sliding up to pull Harold down so their mouths finally meet.  There is nothing shy or reticent about the kiss; there is too much hunger in them both to play coy, to leave any emotion unexamined as they move together in unison.

 

(One week later)

 

Harold blindly pats the short table next to his side of John's bed, searching for his glasses.  Instead, he finds a small leather box and with a grunt, he uses his pleasantly aching muscles to sit up.

Silently,  John places Harold's glasses into his free hand.

"What's this?" 

John bats his impossible eyelashes as he shrugs, the soft linens doing nothing to hide the magnificence of his physique.

Harold opens the box.  Inside he finds a pair of rings very similar to the pair he had worn on the rainy day that had started it all.  Very similar, except the beads are made of jet and as he holds them closer, Harold can see the tiny, perfect little birds carved into the smooth, black surface.

"Now you and I will match," grins John.

 

 

 


End file.
